


You are you, but who are you?

by theyarenightzombiez



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Jay is Skully, Skully tries to figure out who the hell he is, don't ask me how much Skully remembers i don't fucking know man, everyone is gay in this because I said so, idk what else to tag, more tags will be added if this is continued, no one really proofread this it was written at 1am, post entry 80, thank you to my friend for reading this and getting me to post it though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyarenightzombiez/pseuds/theyarenightzombiez
Summary: At least he still knows who he is, he thinks, only to pause.Who is he?He looks around, now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the night a little. He’s in some old, abandoned building it seems. Benedict Hall? The thought crosses his mind, but he isn’t fully sure where it came from. What exactly is Benedict Hall, and why does just the thought of it make the hairs at the back of his neck stand up?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	You are you, but who are you?

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as just a few lines and just. kind of spiraled within about 2 hours lmaoooo  
> Skully is Jay, and wakes up after the events of entry 80?  
> How long after? Who knows, Skully sure doesn't.

_ He's losing time again. _ He hates to admit it, but it's obvious; one moment he's eating a sandwich for dinner in his hotel room, the next he's in bed, waking up, the taste of the sandwich long gone. One minute he's watching tapes, and the next he's in that damn forest again. He doesn't know what to do. It's bad enough that he'd lost 7 months of his life, but he thought he'd gotten back on track, was so sure that he'd figured things out, but yet here he was. 

  
At least he still knows who he is, he thinks, only to pause.  _ Who is he?  _ He looks around, now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the night a little. He’s in some old, abandoned building it seems. Benedict Hall? The thought crosses his mind, but he isn’t fully sure where it came from. What exactly  _ is  _ Benedict Hall, and why does just the thought of it make the hairs at the back of his neck stand up?    
  
He thinks again, tries to conjure up an image of his own face or that of a friend’s, a name, anything, but everything seems muddled together. No matter how hard he focuses on it, the faces in his head stay blurry, distorted, unrecognizable.  _ Sideburns, camera, yellow sweater, glasses, a guy in a suit-  _ He groans when a headache he hadn’t noticed before flares up suddenly. He has no idea what any of those things have to do with his current situation.   
  
‘’Fuck…’’ he says simply.   
  
At least he thinks he’s said it out loud, but he doesn’t  _ hear _ it. His eyes widen, concern washing over him. Is he deaf?! He tries again, louder this time. ‘’Fuck.’’ Nothing still. There’s a persistent sound in his ears however, a static paired with a ringing. He frowns, even more confused now, and instead tries to hit the floor next to himself. The sound is so loud compared to the silence from before that it makes him jump a little.    
  
That, in turn, makes him hiss in pain. He thought the headache was pretty bad, but this is worse. He reaches down to lift the hem of his shirt with shaky hands. There’s a big, dark bruise on his midsection, the center almost black. It’s an almost perfect circle, and the skin around it ranges from black and blue to angry red. It’s spread across most of his midsection.   
  
_ What the fuck?! _ He doesn’t bother trying to say that one out loud, it clearly isn’t going to be audible. He sits up from his slumped over position, slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. The pain is bearable when he moves slow, and he’s almost able to ignore it.

He gets up with some difficulty, instinctively clutching his midsection with his left hand once he stands.  _ It’s bleeding.  _ He looks down immediately, expects blood all over his hand, but there’s nothing.  _ What the fuck.  _ He sighs, looking around the room he’s in once again. His eyes have adjusted pretty well by now, and he can make out a bunch of debris, something that looks like a collapsed bookshelf, broken chairs… A classroom, maybe?    
  
The headache comes back again, pounding, and he groans, free hand shooting up to press against his forehead. Why the fuck is he here?! His eyes fall to a door on the other side of the room. It seems to be the only way out, unless he wants to try climbing out the window in the middle of the night. God knows what floor he’s on.    
  
He makes his way over slowly, almost trips over the leg of a broken chair that’s on the floor. Goddamnit, whoever he is, he’s not good at being quiet, huh?  _ He’ll have to work on that-  _ He pauses, brows furrowed, hand hovering over the door handle. Why exactly would he have to work on that?  _ Because he needs to hide.  _ The thought is his brain suddenly, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s his own, but then again, who else would be in his head? 

He suddenly feels like there’s at least a dozen eyes on his back, and he turns, eyes wide as he scans the room behind him to find- nothing. Absolutely nothing. He sighs, doesn’t question the fact that he can make sounds but not form words, and pushes the handle down. 

The door swings open, and something on the other side clatters to the floor. He freezes once again, heart racing, waits for someone, something, he doesn’t know what, to make a move on him, but nothing happens. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding, and takes a step out of the room.

The hallway is even darker than the room he’d been in, somehow, but he sees what’s on the floor in front of him clearly; It’s a mask, dirty and scuffed up, with faint black lines on it. The eyes are surrounded by thick black, small, round eyebrows sitting on the forehead, and the mouth is two lines of squares that resemble teeth. 

It must’ve been hanging on the outside of the door and fallen when he’d pushed down the handle, he decides as he crouches down. The mask seems awfully familiar. He reaches out, picks it up and turns it in his hand. Taped into the inside of it is a piece of paper.

Skully, it says in bold, black letters, and underneath is an address. Skully. Is that him? He thinks so.  _ Skully.  _ He takes the piece of paper out, letting go of his midsection to read over the address again. It’s all he’s got right now.   
  
He stuffs the piece of paper into his pocket, and then, slowly, puts on the mask, pulling the elastic over his head. He’s Skully. This is his face. He doesn’t need the other one. He straightens up again, taking a deep breath before he sets off. He’ll find that address. Something tells him he will. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I'm very shy when it comes to sharing my writing, so feedback is very appreciated.  
> If people like this i might continue it, i do have a few ideas!


End file.
